


In Your Hands

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, Eventual Comfort, Forced Orgasm, Forced to Watch, Gang Rape, Heavy Angst, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kink Meme, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Nothing good happens in Chapter 1, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rape Aftermath, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: From the prompt:"Crowley and Aziraphale are both captured by a group of demons, Aziraphale because they need an angel for something and he’s the easiest target, and Crowley because he was there.Once the demons have them contained, they start talking about how they only need an angel and Crowley’s not only completely unnecessary, he’ll be a real pain to keep subdued. And none of them have ever liked Crowley. It would make the most sense to murder him and be done with it. Unless... Aziraphale knows Crowley pretty well, maybe he has some good ideas about how they might put him to use...?"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Demons (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 197
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	1. Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's another round of ABSOLUTELY MIND THE TAGS, PEOPLE. This fic is 100% what it says on the tin. It was written for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2933849#cmt2933849) very detailed prompt from the Good Omens kink meme, so I would recommend taking a look at that for a good idea of what happens in this first chapter. The following two chapters will be dealing with the aftermath of Chapter 1 and will contain no violence, sexual or otherwise, but probably a lot of angst, because, well, yeah.

In the days that followed, Aziraphale would wonder bitterly if it all could have been avoided if they had just stayed in that night.

The answer was likely no, it couldn’t have. It was clear from the start that they had been specifically targeted. But that didn’t stop Aziraphale from trying to find new details with which to torture himself, ways that their pain might have been lessened, if only the circumstances had been slightly changed.

Neither he nor Crowley had been afraid, at first, when the four figures stepped out of the shadows in the alley. Both of them had experienced more than their share of attempted muggings, alone and as a couple, and dispatching such criminals with a snap of the fingers and a glimpse of their true forms required only slightly more effort than swatting a mosquito. Somewhat more dangerous were the groups of humans who took issue with the sight of two male-presenting beings holding hands, but only because Aziraphale tended to insist on trying to talk these people into seeing the error of their ways before Crowley lost patience and got his fangs out.

As soon as it became clear they were surrounded, Crowley nudged Aziraphale against the wall and shifted to stand in front of him, looking at the attackers closing in on both sides with a wry smirk.

“Right, lads, you think you know how this is going to go, but trust me, you don’t,” he called out. “Let’s all just stop and think a minute before anyone does anything stupid.”

Then one of the figures stepped into the dim glow of a streetlight, and Crowley and Aziraphale saw his eyes at the same time. Bright green, corner to corner, with slitted pupils like a reptile. Not much different from Crowley’s own eyes, but burning with a malevolence that Aziraphale had never seen present in his friend.

The three other creatures stepped closer, revealing similarly inhuman characteristics.

“Hello, Crowley,” the green-eyed demon hissed. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, dropping his carefree tone at once. “Go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” Aziraphale began to say, but was interrupted when one of the demons on the left lunged at them. This one had waxy gray skin and eyes that were completely black, and he held up a bony fist and blew something that looked like black sand into their faces.

Everything went dark very quickly, but Aziraphale could swear Crowley managed an exasperated sigh before they both hit the ground.

——

When he came to, Aziraphale had the motion-sick sensation of having traveled very far in a too-short amount of time. They looked to be in some sort of warehouse, all dusty corners and dark, silent machinery. The air was cold and smelled different than the alley they had left, and Aziraphale had the feeling they were no longer in London, might not even be in England anymore.

They were forced onto their knees, side by side, their wrists swiftly cuffed behind their backs. Aziraphale felt the charms in place, restricting his powers, and a quick glance at Crowley confirmed they had the same effect on him. Once they were bound, the green-eyed demon stood guard over them while the remaining three moved on to other tasks.

The gray one who had blown sand at them produced a piece of chalk and began drawing a circle of runes on the warehouse floor. Another, fair-haired and sickly-looking, dragged what looked like a shallow iron trough out of the shadows, and set it in the middle of the circle when it was completed. The fourth, broad-shouldered and sporting the sharp yellow teeth of a predatory mammal, pried open a crate and began removing weapons, one after the other, and laying them side by side in the trough. Aziraphale saw swords, flails, tongs, and fought the urge to shudder.

Beside him, Crowley was looking from one demon’s face to the next, clearly as confused as Aziraphale about what was going on here. 

“Alright,” Crowley said quietly. “Look, whatever you need me to do here, let the angel go and I’ll cooperate. You’ve obviously got something fairly elaborate planned, and I doubt you need his holy essence causing interference, so how about we just-“

“Shut up.” The green-eyed demon snapped his fingers, and Crowley’s words were abruptly cut off as a gag materialized in his mouth. He made an outraged noise in the back of his throat and snapped his teeth against the hard leather, and the green-eyed demon knelt between them and put one hand on each of their shoulders.

“It’s the angel that we need,” he said to Crowley, “so you might as well get that self-sacrificing nonsense out of your head right now. And _you_ …” he turned to Aziraphale. “You’re going to be good, aren’t you, angel? Because if you aren’t, I’ll slice your boyfriend open from tip to toe. Understand?”

He held up a blade in front of Aziraphale’s eyes, serrated and sharp, turning it about so the light caught the edges.

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale whispered. He glanced apologetically at Crowley, who was breathing through his nose in irritated little huffs. He knew the demon would probably want him to put up more of a fight, but it might behoove them to appear frightened into submission for now. All the better to set them up for a surprise escape, should the opportunity arise.

The green-eyed demon gave them a friendly smile and clapped them both on the shoulder, then turned his head when the gray one said, “Varos? We’re ready.”

“Oh, good.” The demon - Varos - grabbed Aziraphale by the back of his coat and hauled him to his feet. He shoved him toward the circle and remained at Crowley’s side, pointedly gesturing with the knife when Aziraphale glanced back at them.

“Well?” Varos snapped. “Give him the book, Rilvan! And un-cuff him, you bloody simpleton.”

The fair-haired one slunk forward with a scowl and removed Aziraphale’s bonds, then thrust a very old, very water-damaged book into his hands, opened to a page near the middle. “Read this,” he ordered, tapping the passage with a sallow finger.

Aziraphale looked down at the Latin words and was surprised to see they were some sort of blessing. As he read, he felt his divine essence giving weight to the words, allowing them the power to shape reality. The circle on the floor began to glow, and the demons gathered began to stir with anticipation.

When Aziraphale finished reading, he looked at Crowley again as the book was taken from his hands. The demon’s expression was unreadable behind his glasses, but Aziraphale could see the tension in his shoulders and jaw, waiting for the chance to burst forth.

He heard the sound of steel being drawn, and turned. The gray demon was holding a silver dagger.

“Hold out your arms,” he told Aziraphale. 

Behind him, Aziraphale heard a muffled shout from Crowley and then a scuffle, and had no doubt that the demon had tried to leap to his rescue. The thump that followed sounding more like a blow to the midsection than to the face. Crowley’s labored breaths that followed seemed to confirm this.

“Hold still, idiot. We need him alive,” Varos growled. “Can’t say the same for you, so take my advice and Stop. Making. Trouble.”

_Do what he says, Crowley,_ Aziraphale thought desperately, and held out his arms.

The gray demon shoved Aziraphale’s sleeves up and then slashed him from wrist to elbow, golden blood welling up immediately and beginning to drip into the trough, over the weapons. Rilvan held out the book again and instructed Aziraphale to read another passage.

Ignoring the persistent sting of his wounds, Aziraphale obeyed. Rilvan made him read it again, and again, as the blood streaming from his wrists refused to clot and the trough began to fill. By the time the weapons were all completely submerged, Aziraphale was swaying on his feet and Crowley was soaking the leather between his teeth with vicious, sibilant curses.

The broad-shouldered demon was there to catch Aziraphale when he collapsed, cuffing his wrists once more and instructing him to kneel inside the circle. Dizzy from blood loss, Aziraphale complied, resting his head against the edge of the trough, trying not to retch at the sight of his own blood coagulating.

“Now what?” the broad-shouldered one asked.

“Now we wait,” Varos answered. “Once the weapons have absorbed his blood, they’ll be fully-blessed and ready for action. The Dark Council is meeting tomorrow night. They’ll all be in one place, and they won’t suspect a thing. Hell will be ours.”

Crowley’s derisive snort was unmistakable. All four demons turned to glare at him.

“Got some opinions on that, do you, snake?” The broad-shouldered demon stalked toward Crowley, teeth dripping. “Maybe I should claw your face off. Give you something else to occupy your mind.”

“Miraxas,” Varos cautioned. “Hands off.”

“Why? We don’t need _him_. You said so yourself we don’t need him. Why not just kill him?”

“We made need to retry the spell and bleed the angel again. That’ll be easier if we have his boyfriend here for leverage.”

Suddenly there was the sound of snapping bones, and Crowley, cuffs dangling from one wrist and fingers curling into claws, leaped up and slashed at Miraxas’s face. Aziraphale struggled uselessly against his own bonds to try and join the fray, but he couldn’t persuade his bones to defy physics the way Crowley could. The element of surprise allowed Crowley to open a gash above the big demon’s eye, but he had clearly broken his wrist in his escape attempt and besides, it was still four against one. It was only a few frenzied seconds before Crowley was thrown to the ground, kicked in the ribs a few times for good measure, and cuffed once more.

“Right. Fuck leverage,” said Varos. “Let’s kill him.”

“No!” Aziraphale tried to climb to his feet and nearly tumbled into the trough, so he stayed on his knees and looked pleadingly up at the demons. “You can’t!”

“Watch me,” the green-eyed demon answered, dropping to a crouch and grabbing Crowley by the front of his shirt.

“He knows your plan! If you discorporate him, he’ll go straight to Hell and be able to warn the Dark Council!”

The four demons froze and looked at one another.

“He’s got a point,” Rilvan piped up.

“We could do it slow-like,” the gray demon suggested. “Peel his skin off inch by inch. Spell will probably be complete by the time he bleeds out.”

“All that blood’ll make things slippery,” Miraxas countered. “He could get out of the cuffs again.”

“So we slice his tendons so he can’t walk.”

“Hmm.”

“We could do that,” Varos mused, casting a sly glance in Aziraphale’s direction. “What do you say, angel? Up for a few hours entertainment? We’ll be waiting awhile for those weapons to be ready.”

“No,” Aziraphale whispered. “No, no, please, just leave him alone. He won’t make any more trouble for you. Right, Crowley?”

He looked at Crowley, saw the rage and terror in his lover’s face and tried to soothe it with his gaze alone. _We will get through this_ , he thought. _We’ve been through so much, and we can get through this too, but I need you to trust me._

Reluctantly, Crowley nodded and sat back on his heels.

A poisonous smile spread across Varos’s reptilian features.

“Well, would you look at that,” he mused. “He does what you tell him to, does he?”

He stood and circled Crowley, laying a hand on the back of his neck. “I always knew you were Satan’s little pet, toadying up to him when you weren’t up here, pretending to be _human_.” He spat. “But living at an angel’s beck and call, Crowley? It’s a disgrace is what it is.”

The three other demons nodded.

“It’s not like that,” Aziraphale stammered.

Varos whirled on Aziraphale. “Oh, he doesn’t do what you say? So he _is_ going to make trouble for us again?”

“No, that’s not what I meant!”

“Well, what did you mean?”

“I don’t know, just, please, you don’t need to hurt him!”

Varos, now looming over the kneeling angel, placed a hand on his cheek in a gesture of mock-comfort. “Perhaps we don’t need to, sweetling, but we’re bored. And we may have _hours_ of time we need to kill, before we can let either of you go.”

He stalked back over to Crowley.

“And truth be told, I’ve always hated this one.”

With a swift backhanded blow, Varos knocked the glasses off Crowley’s face and then crushed them beneath his boot.

“Hiding behind these human fripperies. Pretending he’s not one of us.”

He gripped Crowley’s jaw and forced him to look up. With his eyes exposed, the fear in them was easy to recognize, and Aziraphale saw the muscles in Crowley’s face work as he tried to bury it once more.

“Pretty eyes,” Varos hissed. “Perhaps I’ll start by carving them out. Make them into a pretty bauble to wear around my neck.”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale pleaded.

“Angel, I am getting sick and tired of hearing you rejecting all of our ideas while offering none of your own.” He looked around at the other demons for support. “Hardly in the spirit of teamwork, is it? I say I should carve his eyes out. Unless anyone here has a better idea, that’s what I’m going to do.”

The knife was now a hair’s breadth from Crowley’s left eye. He didn’t move. He did look over at Aziraphale, though, and the plea there was clear. 

“C’mon, angel,” Varos prodded. “He’s got to be good for something, hasn’t he? Must be some reason you keep him around.”

The other demons began to snicker.

“No? No uses for him whatsoever? Not a single thing you can think of that might be fun?”

“I can think of a few,” Miraxas chimed in. “Doubt the angel has heard of them, though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Varos ran a hand through Crowley’s hair. “I think he knows quite a few things we can do with him. And I bet our traitorous little snake here would like them a lot better than whatever _we_ think up. Don’t you agree, sweetling?”

_This isn’t happening,_ Aziraphale thought. He knew what the demons were getting at, and he knew they wanted _him_ to be the one to suggest it. 

He couldn’t do it.

_They may be right_ , he thought. _They’ll mutilate him if I don’t say anything, but if I can…oh, God help me, drag this out, keep them distracted, it might be enough, the spell can be finished and they’ll let us go, or maybe we can escape._

He _couldn’t_.

Crowley was still looking at him. Aziraphale looked back, hoping to see anger there, or defiance, or even ( _forgive me, my love, forgive me_ ) lust, anything that might give Aziraphale some indication of what Crowley would prefer. As if choosing between rape and torture had any distinction beyond semantics.

But Crowley only closed his eyes, and waited. Putting his trust in Aziraphale to get them through this.

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered, but he didn’t know to whom he was speaking anymore.

He looked down at the floor when he spoke again.

“You don’t need to hurt him,” Aziraphale muttered. “There are…ways. Ways he can…amuse you.”

“Go on.” Varos cocked his head in an exaggerated display of curiosity. “Stuff he’s done for you?”

“Yes.”

“What sorts?”

“We’ve…” Aziraphale bit back a sob. “We’ve…known each other. Intimately.”

There was a stunned silence, then all four demons burst into hysterical laughter.

“Known each other intimately!” Varos pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Do you think he means fucking, Rilvan?”

“I’m not sure,” Rilvan answered. “Is that what you meant, feather-brains?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley, but the demon still had his eyes closed. 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Varos cackled. “Alright then, how should we do it?”

Aziraphale said nothing, and after a few seconds Varos rounded on him.

“Well?”

“You’re…you’re asking me…”

“The best way to fuck him, you dunce. Since you’re apparently such an expert.”

“Please…I can’t…”

“Oh, I’m just supposed to figure it out for myself, am I?” Varos turned back to Crowley, surveying him up and down. “Well, I think I might like to cut him a few new holes, then. Since it’s completely up to me.”

He reached down and tore Crowley’s shirt open, buttons flying off into the dusty corners. Crouching down once more, knife in hand, Varos caressed the skin of Crowley’s narrow chest.

“Satan, but there really isn’t much of him, is there? Reckon I’ll have to punch through the bone to make a hole deep enough.”

He raised the knife and didn’t even look surprised when Aziraphale shouted, “No! No, don’t, _please_.”

They waited.

“Use…use what he already has,” Aziraphale grated, trying to pretend the words were coming from somewhere else besides his own throat. “There’s…there’s no need to hurt him…”

“Narrow it down for me, would you? How about this, why don’t you tell me _your_ favorite?”

Aziraphale was going to be sick, or faint, or simply go mad. Perhaps all three. Bad enough to have been dragged to this horrible place, bad enough to have to witness the torture of the love of his life, but to have to _advertise_ him like a cut of meat, it was too much, he _couldn’t do this_ …

But he couldn’t watch Crowley be vivisected either. They wanted Aziraphale to suggest things. He tried to think. Perhaps he could steer them toward acts that would cause Crowley the least physical pain. That had to be the better option, hadn’t it?

“His mouth,” he finally said, his cheeks burning as he forced the words out. “You should use that.”

The gray one scoffed. “That’s a trap, Varos. He’s got fangs.”

“He does. You trying to get my cock bitten off, angel?”

“No.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley again, _I’m sorry_ echoing in his mind loud enough to drown out the words he was saying. “He won’t bite. He’ll…he’ll be good.”

“Knows what to do, does he? You’ve got him well-trained?” Varos tilted Crowley’s face up with a claw under his chin, gave him a lecherous grin. 

“Yes…yes, he’s- he’s very skilled.” Aziraphale was huddled into himself, speaking more into his shirt collar than to the room.

“You hear that, Crowley? Your new master speaks very highly of you.” Varos unfastened the gag and tore it out of Crowley’s mouth. “Let’s see if you can live up to it.”

A slew of profanities in four different languages spilled forth the moment the gag was removed, then stopped short when the gray demon knelt behind Crowley and held the silver knife to his throat.

“Here, snake,” he snickered, winking up at the green-eyed demon over Crowley’s shoulder. “Open up, or I open _you_ up.”

Varos was already loosening his trousers, and at the sight of his Effort Crowley’s eyes went wide and Aziraphale barely managed to keep from screaming. The thing had _scales_ on it, poisonous-green and _sharp_ , and when it shoved into Crowley’s mouth and hit the back of his throat his chest heaved and he made this horrible _choking_ sound and no, _this couldn’t be happening_ -

But he couldn’t look away. To look away when this was all happening because of him would be a betrayal more unforgivable than any other he’d already committed. It would destroy him.

So he watched.

The gray demon had the knife jammed up under Crowley’s chin, and Varos had one hand fisted into his hair, so between the two of them Crowley really couldn’t move. He could glare, though, and he did, staring up at Varos with rage burning in his eyes as he struggled to breathe. The green-eyed demon stared back at him a few moments as he slowly fucked his throat, then glanced over at Aziraphale once more.

“I’m not sure what you get out of this,” he said. “He’s not really doing anything.”

_Oh God, Crowley, please, forgive me._

“It’s better if you let him move.” Aziraphale looked pointedly at Crowley, hoping some sort of understanding could pass between the two of them. Some agreement that this, as ghastly as it was, was necessary. “Let him use his tongue.”

Varos laughed and released Crowley’s hair. “Keep the knife on him,” he told the gray demon, then pulled himself partly out of Crowley’s mouth and slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Go on, then. Show me what you’re good for.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed, and for an uneasy moment Aziraphale thought he was going to bite after all, but then he just closed his eyes and began to move his head up and down, silent even as the scales began to draw blood.

“Better,” Varos sighed. His hand moved to Crowley’s hair again, but didn’t pull, just carded his fingers through it. Crowley paid it no mind, was fixated on his task with a clear intent of getting this over with as quickly as possible. 

“You were right. He does have some good tricks. You teach him how to do this?”

“No,” Aziraphale answered numbly. Crowley had taught Aziraphale everything. He’d been the gentlest, most considerate, most patient teacher a nervous, utterly in-love angel could have asked for.

He’d never want to touch Aziraphale again after this.

“No, I suppose not. Can’t imagine what an angel would have to show a demon about _knowing each other_.” He slapped Crowley again. “Don’t slack off on me now, serpent. I can always give your friend a try instead, if you start to bore me.”

Crowley grimaced and forced his mouth farther down on Varos’s cock, breath hitching again as he fought to suppress his gag reflex. He didn’t struggle when the demon gasped in pleasure and held him there.

“Oh, _that’s_ it. Tell me, do you make him swallow it? Or do you pull it out and come on his face?”

_I don’t make him do anything_ , Aziraphale felt like screaming, but of course that wasn’t the point of any of this. They didn’t want to know the truth of what went on between them. They just wanted this to hurt.

What would Crowley choose, if he could? Which option would be less humiliating for him?

What could Aziraphale force himself to say?

“He…he swallows it,” Aziraphale whispered at last.

Varos responded with a satisfied grin and a cruel yank on Crowley’s hair. 

“You heard him, Crowley.”

A few seconds later, Aziraphale watched Crowley’s throat work and understood how a person could commit murder. 

Varos and the gray demon released Crowley at the same time, and as soon as he was freed Crowley doubled over, retching and spitting. Aziraphale saw blood dribble onto the concrete at the demons’ feet.

_Lord have mercy, are they all going to take a turn? He can’t take it,_ I _can’t take it…_

The gray demon was already grabbing Crowley’s shoulders to pull him upright again, and something in Aziraphale snapped.

“Damn you, you animals, _give him a moment!_ ” 

As he shouted, Aziraphale noticed the world going dark around the edges. 

“You’ll have to…excuse him.” Crowley’s voice sounded like it had been dragged through broken glass. “He’s never…been to one of these things before. Can’t expect- hey! Aziraphale! Angel, _stay with me_!”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why Crowley was shouting all of a sudden, or why the room was suddenly at a funny angle. He thought he was just starting to work it out when his head hit the concrete.

——

Crowley’s voice was coming from very far away.

“…rip your bloody guts out and process them into _mulch_ , I swear it, if he-“

“He’s _fine_.” Varos’s voice was coming from behind Aziraphale, who once again found himself on his knees. Aziraphale’s head was seized by the hair, yanked up to look at Crowley. The bound demon was still shouting, eyes snapping with fury. 

“You bled him dry, you _stupid_ -“

“That’s enough of that. See? All healed up. Good as new.”

Aziraphale did notice that he felt less dizzy, and the cuts on his arms didn’t sting anymore. He also noticed that the weapons in the trough were still fully submerged in his blood. Apparently he hadn’t been out long. 

_Or the spell isn’t working and they’re just going to torture us for hours and then kill us…_

How long would it take before the demons abandoned the project as a lost cause and just disposed of the two of them? And would that be the worst thing? Should Aziraphale be _trying_ to get the both of them killed?

_I can’t watch them all use him like that, I can’t._

He thought instead about having to watch Varos cut Crowley’s throat, or stab him through the heart, or strangle him. He thought of Crowley waking up in Hell, alone and traumatized. He thought of the circumstances under which Crowley (or, rather, the being they thought was Crowley) had left Hell the last time, and knew the chances of him getting access to another body were slim-to-none.

_Help us,_ he thought, eyes turning skyward for just a second. _Please_.

Crowley’s litany of threats was abruptly cut off. Aziraphale looked up to see he’d been gagged again. 

“Sorry, Crowley,” Varos sighed, “but your mouth isn’t worth that racket. Angel, you’ll have to give the lads here some other options.”

The other three demons closed in on Crowley, the big one called Miraxas dragging him to his feet and holding him up to face the other two.

“Let’s get his clothes off,” he growled. “See what we’ve got to work with.”

They fell on Crowley, ripping at his clothes with knives and claws. Crowley struggled throughout the process, but there was something cursory about his movements, some sense of a foregone conclusion. 

_He’s never been to one of these things before._

Once they had him naked, the two demons stepped back to look him up and down. Crowley stared back at them, eyes still defiant, but Aziraphale could also see his slender frame trembling a bit under their scrutiny. He might have had a better idea of what was going to happen next than Aziraphale did, but that knowledge didn’t stop him from being afraid.

_I must not pass out again,_ Aziraphale thought. _If I do, please don’t let me wake up. Ever. I’d rather be dead than know he went through this alone._

The gray one, as yet unnamed, stepped forward and put his hands on Crowley’s waist. “Look at him,” he mused. “Not a blemish, not a trace of rot on him. You ever see a demon who looked this clean?”

The other three muttered in agreement, and he flashed a black-toothed smile at Aziraphale.

“ _That_ has to be your doing, doesn’t it? Keep him nice and washed and perfumed before you can stick your holy prick in him, isn’t that right?”

His hands roamed over Crowley’s torso, leaving dark streaks as they went. When those hands reached his face, Crowley wrenched his head away in a clear display of revulsion. The gray demon laughed and planted an equally unwelcome kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t think he likes me,” he leered. His hand dipped below Crowley’s waist, wrapped around his soft cock and tugged at it experimentally. “Maybe we can change that. Help me out, angel. What’s the best way to get him warmed up?”

“Stop,” Aziraphale begged. “You don’t need to do that.”

The gray demon looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “That so? You don’t bother getting him off?”

“What…”

“Got to say, I’m shocked. I mean, _we_ know he’s nothing more than a warm place to stick it, but I thought angels were supposed to be more considerate.”

The other demons laughed, and the gray one gave Crowley’s cock a brutal squeeze. “Suppose I can try to figure it out on my own. It’ll grow back if I twist it off, won’t it?”

“Alright, enough, I’ll tell you what you want, just _stop_.” There were tears on Aziraphale’s face. He didn’t know when that had started.

“You ever fuck him?”

“Yes.”

“On his back? Hands and knees? How do you like him?”

Again, Aziraphale tried to think of what might hurt Crowley the least. He had a broken wrist. And he probably would prefer not to look in his attacker’s face.

“From behind,” he choked out. He looked about the room and jerked his head at a waist-high stack of crates a few meters from the circle. “You can…you can let him lean against that. Easier than holding him up.”

Varos clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder and let out a bark of laughter. “Look who’s suddenly full of ideas. Give it a try, Mallek, sounds like our Angel of Buggery knows what he’s talking about.”

The gray one - Mallek - complied, dragging Crowley over to the crates and shoving him facedown over them. He reached for his belt, and Aziraphale saw Crowley set his jaw and bite down onto the gag, bracing himself for the pain to come.

“Wait,” Aziraphale blurted. “Wait, you can’t just…you need to prepare him first. It will be…better, for you, if you- if you-“

“Now or never, angel. Spit it out.” With a sick sense of relief, Aziraphale noticed that Mallek’s Effort was much more conventionally human-looking. They’d reached the point where such things counted as a mercy, it would seem.

“Miracle something slick onto your hand. Then you can use your…your fingers to…open him up. Before you…”

Aziraphale couldn’t force the rest of the sentence out, but this time it seemed to be enough. Mallek blinked, and then his hand was coated with something dark and shiny. From the angle, Aziraphale couldn’t see what he did next, but he could watch Crowley’s face. Saw him screw his eyes shut and shudder, but he didn’t cry out in pain. 

_Yes, my love, go somewhere else, somewhere deep inside your mind if you can. I’ll stay with you, I promise._

Mallek’s patience lasted about ninety seconds before he grabbed Crowley’s hips and thrust into him. It wasn’t nearly enough preparation, but it must have helped at least a little, because Crowley’s only reaction was to make a low noise in the back of his throat. He kept his eyes closed as Mallek fucked him, and Aziraphale began to dare to hope that he’d gone beyond where the pain and humiliation could touch him.

“Likes it rough, doesn’t he?” This from Varos, who had leaned down next to Aziraphale to be heard only by him. “You can tell. See the way the fight’s going out of him? That isn’t the pain. That’s in here.” A clawed finger tapped against Aziraphale’s temple. “Wants to feel _used._ Begs for it, I’ll bet.”

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Mallek grabbed the chain holding Crowley’s wrists to the small of his back and yanked. Crowley’s eyes sprang open as the handcuffs pulled on his broken wrist and he let out a startled, enraged yelp against the gag.

Varos chuckled. “Of course, some of us prefer a little fight.”

“Oh, _don’t_ ,” Aziraphale cried, but no one even looked at him. Mallek used the chain to pull Crowley back against his thrusts while the other demons jeered their approval. By the time it was over Crowley’s face and back were damp with sweat, as if stricken with a terrible fever.

As he pulled out, Mallek leaned over to whisper something into Crowley’s ear, something that made the demon roll his eyes up and hiss a muffled curse at him. Mallek retreated, and Varos left Aziraphale’s side and stalked over to where Crowley remained sprawled over the crates.

_No, no, please, he’s not going to go_ again _, is he?_

Once Varos was standing over Crowley, he looked at the demon’s cuffed wrists, then at Aziraphale.

“I’ll be honest, that wrist isn’t looking very good from here. He could lose the hand. Want me to heal it?”

This was some sort of trap. Of course it was. But Crowley was so obviously in pain, and what else could Aziraphale possibly say in the face of that?

“Yes! Yes, heal it, he won’t break out again, I promise-“

“Sod your promises. I’ll trade you for it.” Varos reached down to stroke Crowley’s hair, eyes still locked on Aziraphale’s. “Tell me a story.”

“Tell you…?”

Varos grinned. “Tell me about the last time you made him come.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, and the other demons whooped with laughter. They laughed harder when Aziraphale tried to say something and no sound came out, only a bewildered absence of words and a furious blush creeping up the back of his neck. This wasn’t just monstrous, it was _childish_ , and something about that made it all the more horrifying, and no, Aziraphale couldn’t do this, he couldn’t offer up the details of their intimacies as part of this sadistic _game_ …

“I don’t remember,” he muttered.

Varos grabbed Crowley’s injured wrist and squeezed. Crowley howled, then slumped back against the crates when Varos let go, trembling.

“That was a lie,” Varos snapped. “Don’t do that again.”

“Alright…alright.” Aziraphale tried to get his jagged breathing under control. He had a job to do. He had a responsibility to shield Crowley from whatever pain he could. “Heal him and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me now, or forget the whole thing.”

“Fine! I…I…” He had to shut his eyes, as much as it felt like a betrayal to Crowley to do so. He wasn’t going to be able to force the words out otherwise. “I used my mouth on him.”

“Sucked him off, did you?”

“Y- no. No, he didn’t have that Effort. He had a…the other one.”

“Switches for you? Such an accommodating little pet, aren’t you, Crowley?” 

Aziraphale made himself look up. Varos was holding Crowley’s wrist, but not squeezing. Aziraphale felt the surge of infernal magic, saw Crowley’s shuddering subside. His wrist twitched in Varos’s grip and the swelling in his hand began to recede.

Then something else happened, something that made Crowley jolt in surprise and the other demons jeer once more. Varos grabbed Crowley by the shoulders, dragged him on top the crates and flipped him onto his back. He seized one of Crowley’s knees and forced his legs apart, making sure Aziraphale could see.

“So he had a cunt. Like this?”

Aziraphale nodded miserably. At least Varos had actually healed Crowley’s wrist in addition to forcing him to change his Effort; lying on top of his bound hands would have been excruciating if it was still broken. 

He had no doubt Varos would be only too happy to break it again, if Aziraphale stopped cooperating.

“And you got him off with your mouth. Tongue?”

“Yes.”

“Rilvan, get over here.”

The sickly-looking demon crept forward. Varos gestured at Crowley, who was staring up at the ceiling and continuing to grind his teeth.

“Let’s try the angel’s method, shall we?”

At that, Crowley started to struggle, tried to kick Rilvan away from him, so the other two sprang forward and grabbed his legs while Varos pinned him down with a hand on his throat. 

Rilvan knelt between Crowley’s legs. From the angle, Aziraphale could not quite see what he was doing, but he saw the spasm that rocked through Crowley’s hips and his spine, and a few seconds later he heard the demon whimper in a way that was sickeningly familiar.

_At least it isn’t hurting him_ , he thought frantically. _That’s better, isn’t it? It could be so much worse…_

But could it? He watched Crowley’s back arch and his eyes flutter and thought of, really _thought about_ the last time they had made love. How precious of a gift it had felt like, to feel Crowley’s hands tighten in his hair when he came, to hear his love’s voice cry out Aziraphale’s name, to wrap his sleepy, sated demon up in his arms and think _Perfect_ with every fiber of his being.

Nothing was ever going to be perfect again. Not even their memories would be safe, after this.

_Help us,_ he thought again, although by now he was certain no one was listening.

“He’s sensitive,” Miraxas commented. “Feel how his legs are twitching?”

“He is,” Varos agreed. “But he’s holding back. What’s wrong, Crowley? Can’t enjoy it without the angel’s say-so?”

Crowley made no indication that he’d heard him, so he turned back to Aziraphale instead.

“Well? You said this would work for him. You didn’t lie to me again, did you?”

His hand tightened on Crowley’s throat.

“No, no I didn’t lie, I promise, please don’t hurt him-“

“He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that.” Varos’s voice was thoughtful as he peered down at Crowley’s squirming form. Crowley was clearly trying to be silent, the fitful moans being dragged from his throat always cut off almost as soon as they began. “He’s only fighting it this hard because of you, you know. Can’t let his pampered little ninny of a boyfriend see how much he likes this.”

Aziraphale’s stomach turned over. There could be some truth to what their tormentor was saying. The thought of Crowley enjoying this at all _did_ fill Aziraphale with a sort of panicked disgust, and how was that fair? Did he _prefer_ that Crowley be in pain the whole time? No, no, that couldn’t be right…

He was being tortured, with as much malevolent glee as Crowley was. Aziraphale knew that, but he was too horrified to think his way out of it, he just wanted it to _stop_.

“Please…”

No one answered.

When Varos spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. “Come here, sweetling.”

Aziraphale struggled to his feet, picked his way cautiously over to the others, beyond trying to argue. He stood by Varos’s side, looking down at Crowley, wishing his hands were free, wishing he could touch, not even thinking of attempting an escape anymore. Just wanting to offer whatever meager comfort he could.

Varos shoved Aziraphale back onto his knees. Now his face was so close to Crowley’s he could feel the heat coming off of him, could see the minute twitches of his face as he tried to maintain whatever control over his body sheer force of will would allow. 

“Tell him,” Varos commanded. “Tell him to let go. It’s alright if he enjoys it. He has your permission. Doesn’t he?”

Aziraphale repeated what Varos said without hearing himself. They were just words. They meant nothing. All he’d thought so vital, so incorruptible, meant nothing.

At the sound of his voice Crowley’s eyes slitted open. He shook his head, still defiant, still arguing with Aziraphale in the tiny way he still could.

_Oh, Crowley, I love you, I love you so much, please know that nothing could ever change that, even if you hate me when this is over._

“If he doesn’t give in, I’m going to fuck him next,” Varos whispered. He spoke right up against Aziraphale’s ear, so quietly the angel was sure no one else could hear him. “Think you can stand to see that?”

Remembering the blood on the concrete after Varos had finished with Crowley the first time, Aziraphale knew the answer was no, he couldn’t. He needed to protect Crowley any way he could. Even if that meant making choices that Crowley would refuse to make.

“Tell him…tell him to use his fingers as well,” Aziraphale muttered. “That should…finish him off.”

Varos gave a satisfied little laugh, and relayed Aziraphale’s instructions to Rilvan. Crowley thrashed so hard that all three demons holding him down had to adjust their grips on him to keep him on his back. He was clearly trying not to scream, trying not to give them the satisfaction, but with no other way to move and Rilvan still relentlessly working between his legs, it was hopeless. The sound he made when he came was utterly broken, defeated, _lost_ , but it was a sound of pleasure all the same and Aziraphale recognized it as such. Crowley collapsed with tears streaming down his face while Aziraphale fought to keep his own weeping in check. He had no right, no right at all to feel sorry for himself when Crowley was the one they were taking everything from.

“There there, pet,” Varos cooed, stroking Crowley’s cheek with a scaly knuckle. “Your angel knows you tried. He understands. It’s not your fault it felt good, is it? He knows what you are. What you’re good for.”

Claws sank into the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Say it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aziraphale repeated. That, at least, he could say truthfully.

“Go on.”

“I know what you are.” 

_My love, my companion, my world, and you know it too, you must know it._

“I know what you’re good for.”

_And they never will. They could never understand what makes you so precious to me._

If Crowley understood the intent behind Aziraphale’s words, he didn’t show it. He seemed, at last, to have gone somewhere else, eyes shifting blankly about the room and allowing his body to be moved as his attackers pleased. Rilvan took him next, and then Miraxas, the latter with a ridged, club-like Effort that he manifested on the spot with an expectant grin. He quickly grew frustrated with Crowley’s mute acceptance and backhanded him hard across the face. When that received no reaction he snapped his teeth at Aziraphale, his hands pressing bruises into Crowley’s hips.

“Snap him out of it,” he ordered. “It’s no fun when he’s like this.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale answered coldly. Varos had stepped away, was looking into the trough full of weapons with cautious interest, and Aziraphale was daring to hope it was almost over. 

“You’re lying. Talk to him.”

_Talk to him._ Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. What could he possibly say to Crowley? Any words of comfort he could offer had been ruined by Varos’s hideous imitation of tenderness from before. And encouraging Crowley to fight back was an obvious trap, just an excuse to hurt the both of them worse.

“Don’t laugh!” Miraxas roared. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, I’ll break his spine if you do that again-“

“Miraxas,” Varos hissed.

The big demon looked toward their ringleader. “What?” he snarled.

“Let him go. We’re ready.”

“But-“

“ _Miraxas._ It’s time.” Varos held a short, curved sword aloft in one gloved hand. There was a faint golden glow to the blade’s sharp edge.

The moment stretched, Miraxas clearly torn between lustful momentum and allegiance to Varos, then he let go of Crowley and shoved him away with a disappointed grunt. The other demons moved to join their leader, pulling on heavy leather gloves to handle and admire the weapons, packing them away into crates, preparing them for transport.

Crowley rolled onto his side, curling his legs up, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He didn’t make a sound.

Aziraphale watched the demons load the crates onto a freight elevator, listened to it spring into rusted, sputtering life and carry them away. Soon it was only him, Crowley, and Varos, still admiring the sword he’d selected.

“You know,” he mused, “we really should make sure that these work the way they’re supposed to.”

He raised the blade and began walking over to them.

“No,” Aziraphale begged, “no, no, you can’t, you can’t, _get away from him-_ ”

Varos pushed Crowley onto his back again, turned the blade point down, and carefully scratched a shallow cut diagonally across Crowley’s chest.

As soon as the blade made contact, Crowley started screaming, with no rage or fear or reluctant pleasure this time. It was a sound of pure, thoughtless pain. He didn’t stop when the knife withdrew. Black tendrils began to creep out beneath the skin, radiating from the cut, tracing the lines of his veins.

“No divine intervention this time,” Varos remarked. “How interesting.”

He waved his hand, and Aziraphale’s cuffs vanished.

“He might live, if you act quickly. Consider it your payment.”

Aziraphale moved into action immediately, stripping off his coat and pressing it to the wound in Crowley’s chest, already noticing it was bleeding far more than a cut that shallow should have been.

He heard the elevator start moving again.

“Thanks for all your _help_ , angel.”

He didn’t look over. Nothing Varos had to say mattered anymore. 

The wound wasn’t healing.

For a moment, panic threatened to swamp Aziraphale’s reflexes. He wrung his hands, torn between a thousand options, none of them sufficient, now that he had his powers back.

He snapped his fingers, and Crowley’s cuffs and that wretched gag disappeared. Crowley took a huge gulp of air that resulted in a coughing fit and Aziraphale surged forward to steady him, pressing his coat more firmly against the wound while Crowley’s body shook.

“‘Ziraphale,” he rasped when he finally caught his breath. “’M’sorry.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale answered, not really hearing him. His mind raced. Crowley had been wounded with a blessed weapon. He didn’t have much time. Aziraphale had no idea where they were, no tools with which to heal him, no way to call for help.

Did he?

He looked back over at the remains of the demons’ makeshift altar. They’d taken all the weapons with them, but they’d left the spell-book they’d made Aziraphale read from. And the chalk.

_Divine intervention,_ he thought.

“Crowley,” he said. “I’m going to get us out of this. But I need you to move, and it may hurt a bit. I’m sorry about that. Can you stand?”

“Uhhh…” Crowley made an attempt, still clutching Aziraphale’s coat to his chest, and slid onto the floor. “No.”

“Alright. That’s fine. You’re going to be fine.” Aziraphale scooped Crowley up in his arms, carried him to where the circle was still partially chalked onto the floor. He knelt down in the center of it, Crowley’s head coming to rest on his lap, his jacket turning blackish-red.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” Aziraphale whispered. He laid his left hand against Crowley’s cheek, trying to ignore how worryingly cold his skin was growing.

With his right hand, he picked up the chalk and began to draw.


	2. Experience

Sometime in six-thousand years of making his living in human misery, Crowley had picked up the knowledge that it was common for those who had experienced significant trauma to form gaps in their memory. The human brain could only take so much, and when it became overwhelmed it obfuscated things, buried them, locked them away where they could do no further harm.

As far as Crowley knew, it didn’t work that way for demons.

Even as the blessing that had been slashed into his skin was eating away at him, cell by cell, Crowley knew that he was going to remember every second of this, as well as what had come before. The pain, the terror, the bone-deep disgust with himself, all preserved, crystalline and within arm’s reach, any time, forever. 

It was almost enough to make him ask Aziraphale not to bother saving him.

Had he been able to speak throughout the ordeal, he would have told Aziraphale to stop playing their game, to let them torture him as they saw fit. It was obvious that creativity was not any of their strong suits. (Did they really think no one in the history of Hell had ever tried to stage a coup before? Not only were they not the first working stiffs to get the bright idea to barge into the Council chambers waving some blessed weapons around and demanding regime change, it was actually a somewhat vital part of Hell’s political machine. Fomenting the occasional hastily-planned rebellion was cheaper than holding local elections _and_ better for morale. Those loyal to the current administration got to feel smugly vindicated and those who had backed the upstarts got to feel martyred, righteous and motivated to do it all again in a few decades. Everybody won, except for the leaders of the rebellion, of course. Crowley wondered if they were still using holy water for traitors Down There, or if his own failed execution had called for some updates to standard procedure.)

He watched Aziraphale chalk runes on the floor around them, consulting the book for reference as he went. Occasionally, he ran his free hand through Crowley’s hair or over his cheek, murmuring “Stay with me, my love,” or “Hold on, it’s almost ready,” so quietly that Crowley couldn’t be sure the angel even meant for him to hear.

He couldn’t speak; he was too focused on gritting his teeth to keep himself from shrieking in pain. It spread further with each beat of his heart, scouring him from the inside. 

Had he been able to speak, he would have told Aziraphale that yes, whatever they were going to do was going to hurt, badly, and yes, he’d probably scream and beg for mercy at some point because physical bodies tended to not be able to help it when things got really graphic. But he shouldn’t worry, because he’d take whatever they could come up with if it meant Aziraphale would be spared.

But he hadn’t been able to say any of that. Instead, he’d been turned from a victim to the instrument of the angel’s torture, and that hurt so much more.

“There,” Aziraphale said. “That should hold the both of us well enough. Now, Crowley.” A light touch on his shoulder, carefully rolling him onto his back. “This next bit may be uncomfortable, but I need you- I need you to just let it happen. Can you do that?”

Oh, but those words stung, and Crowley suspected Aziraphale knew it, because his voice shook a bit as he made that request. _Let it happen. Let go. It’s not your fault._ So much worse than pain, that rush, that crest. How was Aziraphale ever going to be able to stand to touch him again, knowing that his body could respond in such ways to such horrible things?

Aziraphale’s hands were on him. That was good. Crowley wanted that, if this was the end, wanted Aziraphale’s touch to be the last thing he felt. One last pleasant memory to see him off into the darkness.

 _Love you, angel,_ is what he would have said. Over and over, until he had nothing left with which to speak.

Then everything went to pieces.

It was like he’d been seized up in an impossibly large set of hands and then _thrown_. He was tumbling, lost and insignificant as a snowflake in a storm. If this was dying, he hadn’t thought it would involve this much frantic motion. He tried to get his bearings, tried to open his eyes, but he didn’t _have_ eyes any more, he had no form at all, and he was lost, and it was _cold_.

But there was warmth, somewhere down below, if that direction was still down. There was warmth, and a sense of being compelled, an invitation, a pull, and Crowley fell toward it because he had nowhere else to go…

——

“Crowley?”

His own voice, coming from far away.

“Crowley!”

He couldn’t understand why he was yelling his own name, or why he couldn’t make it stop.

“Please, speak to me, _please_.”

“I _am_ speaking, aren’t I?” he answered.

Or at least, he thought he’d answered. It was Aziraphale’s voice he heard.

Crowley opened his eyes, and saw himself.

He was lying on his back. Yellow eyes stared down at him, wearing a look of tenderness and concern that Crowley had never seen before, certainly never reflected in a mirror. Crowley saw that look, and then things clicked into perspective.

He looked down at Aziraphale’s body, held Aziraphale’s hands up in front of his face. The palms were still dusted with chalk.

“This was your plan, then?” he asked. 

Crowley watched relief crash across his own face, lighting up with Aziraphale’s particularly bookish brand of triumph.

“It worked. I made us switch. I thought…I reasoned that the blessed knife couldn’t hurt you, if I was in your form.”

He sat up, bracing himself for pain and then remembering he wouldn’t find it, not as he currently was. Crowley could still taste the ghost of tears on Aziraphale’s lips and the iron tang of fear in the back of his throat, but his body was undamaged. Downright comfortable. The clothes were much more scuffed and frayed than Aziraphale normally allowed, but they were still a welcome change from his cold, abraded skin.

The skin Aziraphale was now wearing.

“I’m sorry if it was a little bit abrupt,” the angel continued. “I had to rather force you out of your body and call you into mine. Much less elegant than last time.”

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered. “I look terrible.”

The gash across Crowley’s chest was still bleeding sluggishly, but at least that necrotic bloom had vanished, leaving it just another ordinary wound, of only slightly more concern than the scrapes on his knees. Or the finger-shaped bruises on his hipbones. Or the claw marks on his thighs. And then of course, there were the hidden injuries, the raw burn in his throat and the ache between his legs, all the places where he was sticky and sore and _used_. All the things that Aziraphale could now feel, all the things Crowley had never wanted him to.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered. “You…you should heal yourself. Me. Whatever. You shouldn’t have to-”

“I’m not sure I have the strength just yet, my dear,” the angel interrupted in Crowley’s voice, and _fuck_ , that didn’t sound right, those soft and rational words spoken in that broken rasp of a voice, the lips and teeth stained with dried blood. His own blood. Aziraphale would be tasting it with every word he used that mouth to speak. “And I should save it to get us home.”

“Let me try, then.”

“No, you should rest.”

“Don’t be stupid, there’s no way I can rest when you’re…when you’re trapped inside that _mess_.”

“It’s not-“

If stilted formality sounded off-putting in Crowley’s voice, bitter laughter sounded even more unnatural in Aziraphale’s. “What, it’s not a mess? Don’t even try to tell me that.”

“It’s nothing I can’t endure.”

“I don’t _want_ you to endure it!”

“I deserve to! It was all my fault!”

How strange it was, to watch someone else’s emotions play across his own face. To see Aziraphale’s guilt and heartbreak written in Crowley’s bold lines and angles. 

“They did this to you because of me! I had to…to _talk_ them into it, to _humiliate_ you-“

“I was there, angel. I know what they did.” One of Aziraphale’s hands reached out to brush the soft pad of a thumb across Crowley’s bruised cheekbone. “Them. Not you.”

“But-“

“Aziraphale, _please_ , I can’t…I can’t do this right now…”

Yellow eyes blinked, spilled over, tracked fresh lines down already salt-stained cheeks. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

How strange, to watch oneself break down.

Crowley sighed inwardly. The angel had seen them through to this point, kept the both of them alive, but he had very little left to give. Crowley could sense the balance shifting, sensed that he would have to be the one to carry the both of them past this point, and he was not so pure that he didn’t feel a small bit of resentment for that. By all rights he should be the one to be having hysterics right now. But they couldn’t afford for the both of them to do that and Crowley was, for better or worse, the senior partner in this type of trauma.

He wondered if Aziraphale was ever going to ask him to explain that. He wondered what he would say.

_Remember the expression ‘no honor amongst thieves’, angel? Well, there’s not a lot of mutual respect and compassion amongst demons, either. Hell doesn’t have an HR department. So sometimes things happen, and you take your lumps and move on, and you stay out of the way of those who give you trouble. Sometimes you’re even clever enough to get revenge. You may not be able to get your hands on holy water, but you may be able to get your enemy promoted topside just before the Crusades are about to begin. So it all washes out in the end. But I thought that was all behind me._

_I thought we were safe._

“Aziraphale,” he tried again. “I…I need to fix this. Please let me fix it.”

Sniffling, shivering, Aziraphale made Crowley’s head nod and closed his eyes. 

_How can he trust me, when I’ve brought him so much pain?_

_What other choice does he have? What other choice does either one of us have?_

Crowley put Aziraphale’s hands on his own shoulders, and reached out with his will to shape the world.

Right away, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to heal the cut on his chest. His magic skittered off of it like nails on smooth glass. He could sense the blessing still thrumming throughout the body, harmless now to its occupant but still resistant to Crowley’s influence. But he could heal the rest, if he pushed hard. 

There were cuts on his lips, inside his mouth. The tears Aziraphale was shedding would have them stinging mercilessly. Crowley sent those away first, demanding the torn skin repair itself, ordering the tongue to forget the taste of blood and leather and poison. He sent that will all the way down the throat, watched the overtaxed muscles flex and then relax, heard Aziraphale’s breathing soften in timbre.

He let Aziraphale’s precise, almost delicate fingers play over the demon’s battered face. The bruises and the swelling faded, leaving no evidence of violence. All save for the eyes, which when they blinked open were still haunted, still hurt, so Crowley gently thumbed them closed and kissed each one in turn, puzzled by the softness of his own skin.

“Relax,” he sighed. “Just…just let me do this, yeah?”

This couldn’t be healthy, Crowley knew. At best it was wildly narcissistic, treating his own body with a tenderness he would never have asked for. But it was Aziraphale in there, and Aziraphale needed to feel safe, and find a way to forgive himself, and what better way than to be cared for and soothed by his own hands?

Well, probably lots of better ways. But they were short on options, and Crowley was a demon, not a doctor. They’d have to make do with what they had.

There was a dark bouquet of red and purple blooming on Crowley’s ribs. At least one of them was broken. He’d felt it go when they’d had him on the ground. Those colors vanished, as did the dark smudges left by grabbing hands. Easy enough to dismiss some grime from existence, but Crowley knew what would really stay with him was the feel of Mallek kissing his cheek and hissing twisted endearments into his ear as he spent inside him. But Aziraphale hadn’t been able to feel that, so it wasn’t important right now.

When Crowley turned his healing attentions lower, Aziraphale gasped and pressed their foreheads together. Too much, too intimate, Crowley was certain, but he forged on ahead anyway, because it was a fucking wreck down there and they both knew it. That idiot Miraxas in particular hadn’t had any interest in observing the limitations of a human body. Aziraphale hadn’t seen everything he could do with what he’d manifested, but he could feel, now, how deeply Crowley had to reach to fix everything, and that set him to crying again. By the time Crowley was able to withdraw the shoulder of Aziraphale’s dove-grey Oxford was slate-grey with tears, the demon’s body quaking in his arms.

“It’s alright,” Crowley whispered, running soft fingers through sweat-stiff ginger hair. “It’s over, angel. We’re done.”

They stayed huddled like that for some time, Crowley’s voice whispering the occasional plea for forgiveness and Aziraphale’s voice assuring him he had it, he would always have it. Until eventually both voices fell quiet and they just held one another.

When they pulled apart, one of them snapped their fingers, and the tattered remains of Crowley’s clothes slithered up from the floor, climbed the demon’s arms and legs and rearranged themselves back into the outfit he’d been wearing. The smashed sunglasses he picked up, shook out, and placed back on his eyes.

“We can’t switch back yet,” he said. “Not until this wound heals. But I think I can get us home in the meantime.”

The angel stood and put on his rumpled and bloody coat, sending the stains away with a wave of his hand.

“There’s a stop we need to make first.”

“My dear boy, I hardly think this is the time for distractions.”

“It’s not a distraction.” Blue eyes, darkened to the color of a stormy sea, narrowed in the direction of the elevator. The way that their attackers had left.

“It’s closure.”


	3. Home

Thirty-six hours later, the working-class residents of Hell gathered in front of grubby glass windows and stuttering television monitors to watch an execution.

Four traitors, armed with blessed weapons that they had acquired through means not for the public to know, had broken into the Dark Council chambers and staged an unsuccessful coup. There had been a brief skirmish, in which one Council member was killed (one of the least popular among them, who had recently feuded publicly with several of the others), after which the rebels were quickly disarmed and apprehended, the Council members being in possession of some secret weapons of their own.

Some of the older and smarter demons, the ones who had been around long enough to recognize a pattern when they saw one, commiserated knowingly with one another over these occurrences. Opinions were whispered in hallways and stairwells, with the most common conclusion being reached that politics was a fool’s game, and a smart demon was one who focused on their own work and kept their head down.

One or two demons came away thinking that they could have done much better, had they planned a rebellion of their own. Not that they had any intention of doing so, of course. But if they did, it would go differently, of that they could be certain.

Mostly, though, Hell’s residents just appreciated the execution for the entertainment value. In light of the Holy Water Debacle that had occurred shortly after the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t, the Council had updated their methods. The rebels had amassed quite a holy arsenal in anticipation of their new rulership over Hell. By the time each weapon the authorities had confiscated had fulfilled its function, there was hardly anything left to be cleaned up.

In light of such a spectacle, no one noticed two figures near the back of the crowd, wearing shapeless robes with face-obscuring hoods. No one noticed the taller one grab the rounder one’s hand and squeeze, once, when Varos, the rebel leader, lost composure and began to beg for mercy.

No one noticed them slip away, toward the escalators leading up to Earth.

Or perhaps some did, and chose to say nothing. One did one’s best to mind one’s own business, in Hell. Those who made trouble often ended up bringing it back upon themselves.

——

They arrived back at the bookshop in their own bodies, silent and subdued.

Aziraphale had not, by any stretch of the imagination, enjoyed observing the execution. He actually had spent the whole process in a state of near panic, hemmed in on all sides as they were by strange demons. He’d been terrified that they would be discovered, detained, possibly tortured again, but Crowley had expressed no such concerns. It seemed to Aziraphale that Crowley needed very badly to see their attackers meet their fate, so the angel had held his tongue. He hardly had the right to refuse Crowley anything. And a few subtle changes to their appearances had rendered them inconspicuous enough that no one spoke to them. 

It was with relief that he found himself outside the shop once more, although that relief was short-lived. The last time he had walked out this door, he had done so with no expectation of the horrifying turn their night was going to take. Now the whole place seemed to exist behind this haze of unreality, a soap bubble floating on air that would disappear at the slightest breeze. As he fumbled for his keys, he realized that Crowley was standing back from the door, hands in pockets, angled in that familiar way that signaled he was about to take his leave.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Aziraphale whispered, before he could lose his nerve and stop himself. He didn’t want to be alone, although if that was what Crowley needed he resolved to understand. 

For his part, Crowley looked surprised. “You want me to stay?”

“I do,” Aziraphale answered, unlocking the door and holding it slightly ajar. “Only if you want to, darling. I don’t…I’ve no wish to impose upon you.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, long enough that Aziraphale nearly told him never mind, he would be fine on his own. But before he could speak Crowley nodded, ducked under Aziraphale’s outstretched arm and slunk into the stuffy darkness of the shop.

There was an awkward shuffle of turning on lights and hanging up coats during which both of them seemed extra vigilant to avoid accidental touch. When Crowley took up his usual spot on the couch in the back, Aziraphale did not move to sit next to him and take the demon’s head or feet in his lap, as had become recent habit, but perched on a nearby chair as he had done in so many drinking sessions before. This regression stung, but it was better than rattling around this memory-space with only his thoughts for company. 

The silence stretched until Aziraphale could stand it no longer, and cleared his throat.

“I could make some tea. Or open a bottle of something, if you’d prefer, although I’m not sure-“

“Don’t.” Crowley’s voice was thin, oddly strained even though they’d barely exchanged words since their elevator trip down to Hell. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone neutral, but he could sense the tension in the air well enough. Whatever was between them that had remained unsaid between the time Crowley had healed him and the execution, it was going to be said now.

“That bloody _English_ thing you do. Where you pretend everything is fine. I mean, really, Aziraphale, _tea_? Is that what you really think this situation calls for?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly, shamed into looking down at his hands. “I’m…I’m afraid I don’t know what’s appropriate at a time like this. I wish I did-“

“No,” Crowley snapped. “No, you don’t. Trust me.”

Aziraphale cringed. “You’re right. Of course you’re right, I’ve no idea what I’m talking about. I only meant…oh, I don’t know. Isn’t-“ He had to stop a moment to compose himself. Tears were threatening to break through again, and he couldn’t stand to cry anymore, felt he may well gag at the taste. “Is there anything I can do for you, my love? Anything that would help?”

“Bless it, angel, I don’t know.” Crowley tipped his head back and let his eyes fall shut. “I thought…I thought I would feel better, after the execution. _Schadenfreude_ always helped in the past, you know.”

The past. Against his will, Aziraphale remembered the things Crowley had said during the attack, the signs of resignation he’d shown that pointed to a chilling familiarity with the sequence of events. 

“How many-“ he began, but Crowley was already shaking his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he grated. “Enough. You were never supposed to know.”

“Crowley, why on Earth would you-“

“What?” A single fluid motion, and Crowley had moved from supine to upright. “Why would I hide that? Why would I _ever_ want you to know, angel? You think I could expect you to share a bed with me, to kiss me, knowing I- knowing what I-“

His voice shook and he snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide and furious. Aziraphale could only gawk at him for a moment before finding his own voice, far more tremulous than he was hoping for.

“You…you thought I wouldn’t want you if I had known…known you were-“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, _you can’t even say the words_!” Crowley leapt to his feet, hands an agitated blur. “You want to do something for me, Aziraphale? _Tell me what happened_. Look me in the eye and tell me that you know I was raped, because all I can do is wonder if you’re going to spend the rest of our lives calling it ‘that unfortunate incident’ and I _can’t take it_ , I can’t, _you couldn’t even tell them we’re lovers_ , they had to _drag_ it out of you like it was the deepest, darkest secret you ever had, and I don’t- I don’t understand _why_ -“

Once again the demon’s voice faltered, and this time he hid it by clutching his head in one hand and turning away. 

Aziraphale couldn’t speak. Crowley thought Aziraphale had been ashamed of their relationship, had been and still was disgusted with him. He thought of the care with which Crowley had healed his own body while Aziraphale occupied it, an act that at the time had seemed like tenderness toward the self but in light of Crowley’s words now seemed like another attempt to shield Aziraphale from harsh reality. Because…

_Because I’m soft. Soft, and weak, while he’s had to cope all on his own._

_Crying in his arms, begging for forgiveness, when he needed me._

His first instinct was to apologize, to ask for forgiveness once again, but he forced that impulse away. Having to spend even more energy reassuring Aziraphale wouldn’t help Crowley in the slightest right now.

Instead he closed the distance between them. Crowley’s shoulders were up around his ears, trembling slightly, and Aziraphale was hesitant when he slid an arm around his waist. Until now he’d been reluctant to initiate touch. He’d assumed Crowley would prefer it that way, but now he could only see his careful avoidance of contact through Crowley’s prism of disgust with himself, and felt his heart twist. He waited for Crowley to pull away and when he didn’t, put his other arm around him and drew him back onto the couch, letting the demon’s head come to rest on his shoulder.

“Is this alright?” he asked, because he still had to ask, couldn’t stand the thought of touching Crowley in a way the demon didn’t want.

“Yes,” Crowley answered softly. “’S’fine, angel, I’m not… I won’t break.”

“I know. Of course you won’t, how could I ever think otherwise? You’ve been so strong.”

That set Crowley to a fresh bout of shuddering, and for a few minutes Aziraphale just held him. 

“I know what happened,” he said quietly, when he felt he could speak in a soothing voice. “I’ll say it if you want me to, as many times as you like. But there’s other things I’d rather say more, if you’ll permit it.”

Crowley, still shaking, nodded. There was a dampness spreading over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“You’re Crowley. You’re a demon,” Aziraphale began, reaching up a tentative hand to stroke said demon’s hair. “You’re the person I love most in all of Creation, and nothing could ever change that. You…” He took a deep breath. “You were cast out of Heaven. You were subjected to the worst Hell had to inflict upon you, and bore it with such strength that I never even suspected the depravity of which they were capable. Torture and rape, yes, I understand that now, but more than that they made you believe you deserved such suffering, because of who you were. And I…I contributed to that as well, I believe. Made you think you had to be _worthy_ of me.”

Crowley was weeping freely now. Aziraphale held him tighter and pressed on.

“They degraded the both of us, those four, and I…I led them to it. I thought- I thought them using you for carnal means would hurt less than whatever else they came up with, and because I was naive I didn’t realize how cruel they could be.”

“I knew,” Crowley said hoarsely. “I knew what they were going to do. I don’t blame you for it. There were no good choices, angel. They saw to that.”

“Perhaps, but still I regret it with all my heart, and I hope you’ll forgive me for it, but if you don’t I understand. I love you. I will _always_ love you. No matter what happens.”

“I love you too,” Crowley choked out, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Always- I don’t- don’t wanna leave-“

“No, dear boy, sweet boy, stay with me.” Clasping their hands together, Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s knuckles between his words. “As long as you like…I’ll close the shop if that’s what you want, we never have to leave this spot.”

A laugh, fleeting and thick with tears but real nonetheless. “Could use some sleep, I think.”

“Of course. Let me just-“

Before Aziraphale could fully untangle himself, he heard the soft snap of fingers and found they had moved to his tiny upstairs flat. They were seated on the foot of the bed now, still very much wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Didn’t want to let go of you,” Crowley explained. “I know you don’t sleep, but would you stay with me a while?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, letting Crowley pull them down over the covers, still fully dressed. He seemed to already be drifting off. “Yes, of course, my love. I’ll be right here.”

As if the words had been a magic spell, Crowley immediately went boneless, his breathing soft and even. Aziraphale took a moment to marvel at this ability before gingerly settling in next to him. He didn’t sleep, true enough, but he fully intended to keep his promise.

He watched the shadows move on the ceiling and tried, with intermittent success, to find peace.

——

The nightmares came, as Crowley knew they would. 

Familiar ones, at first. Tight, crowded corridors filled with grasping hands. Crawling sensations on his skin. His jaw rusted shut, his voice dead in his throat, with the knowledge that if he could just say one word, just make a sound, this would all stop, but it was never going to happen.

He’d had them all before, and he knew they were dreams. Just a part of the process, unpleasant but unsurprising.

Until the dream changed.

Now he was on the bed in his Mayfair flat, kissing Aziraphale. The angel’s body was rigid in his arms, and Crowley thought _Something’s wrong, he’s usually so soft._

He pulled back to look Aziraphale in the eyes, to ask him if he was alright, and saw tears running down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said immediately. He knew it was the right thing to say; why would Aziraphale possibly be crying, if not because of something Crowley had done?

“It’s not your fault,” Aziraphale answered him. He shifted their bodies so he was on top of Crowley now, pinning him flat against the bed. Crowley felt himself respond, felt himself arch his hips up to chase the very real arousal lighting up inside him. He had banished his Effort shortly after he and Aziraphale had switched back to their proper forms, but now he could feel he had one again, wet and eager against the pressure between his legs.

“I know what you are,” Aziraphale whispered, and closed his hands over Crowley’s throat.

Panic washed over Crowley and he began to struggle, noticing even as he did that he was still crazily aroused. The sensation built as he clawed at the hands holding him down, thrashed and tried to throw the angel off of him. None of it worked; Aziraphale continued to bear down on his throat, tears falling from his eyes and landing on Crowley’s face, stinging his cut lips. 

“ _Sensitive_ ,” the angel hissed. It didn’t sound like Aziraphale’s voice anymore, but who else could it be? There was no one else in bed with him.

Crowley tried to say _No_ , but he couldn’t speak, he didn’t have any air to breathe and besides, the sensations peaked and he was coming, untouched and unwilling but coming _hard_ nonetheless, and there was nothing he could do but close his eyes and whimper through it, wishing he were somewhere else-

——

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading at the sound of sheets rustling.

Crowley had been asleep for two days. During that time, Aziraphale had taken some measures to make sure the demon was comfortable. He’d miracled him into some nightclothes, tucked him under the blankets and turned up the heat. Occasionally Crowley would sigh, or moan, or scratch at the covers. When he seemed in distress, Aziraphale would lie down next to him, and was always gratified by the way Crowley would coil his limbs around him and hold on until his breathing eased.

While Crowley slept, Aziraphale read. He had a short stack of books on the bedside table, far more modern-looking than what he usually traded in. Most of them had _Trauma_ in the title.

He had no intention of failing Crowley again. He needed to learn everything he could.

As Crowley’s stirring became more frantic, Aziraphale set the book down. Crowley’s sleeping features were drawn up and unhappy, his breathing ragged. Aziraphale reached out to take his hand, but before he could Crowley’s eyes snapped open.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, trying to keep his voice as mellow and calm as possible. “It’s alright, darling, you just had a bad-“

Before he could finish the sentence, Crowley rolled onto his side, buried his face against the pillow and screamed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Aziraphale heard him sobbing. “Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Cautiously, Aziraphale began to rub slow circles into Crowley’s back. His skin was feverish through the black silk, and he was shaking. “It’s alright, my love. You’re safe.”

Crowley shuddered and cursed a few more times. When he finally raised his head off the pillow to speak, his voice was thick with anger.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” he growled. “Not with them. I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Aziraphale agreed, scooting closer so that Crowley could rest his head on his lap, if he wished. For now the demon remained propped up on his elbows, staring blankly at the headboard in front of him.

“I thought about you,” he said hollowly. “When I knew they weren’t going to stop, not until I…until they got what they wanted. Fuck, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what else to do-“

“No, darling, don’t apologize.” Aziraphale lit a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek, tilting his face up so their eyes could meet. “I think we’ve both done enough of that, don’t you?”

“Is everything ruined? Are _we_ ruined?”

Hearing Crowley voice his own worst fears made Aziraphale’s stomach twist in apprehension. That worry settled in with the air of of a guest making themselves at home. Were they ruined? Would they ever know definitively that they were, or would they just keep trying to put the pieces back together with diminishing success?

“I don’t want us to be,” Aziraphale finally answered. “I think we still have a choice.”

Crowley took a deep breath, and nodded. He laid his head on Azirapahle’s lap. 

“Alright,” he whispered. “That’s a good place to start.”

“It might not be easy.”

“I don’t care. Love you, angel.”

“I love you too.”

The room fell silent once more. The angel searched for answers, the serpent sought his peace, and outside, the sun started to rise over London once again.


End file.
